The Jokers Suit
by Pandora's Teapot
Summary: Just a short little thing about where, how and why the Joker gets his garb! From the perspective of the guy who makes his clothes. Please note: I make it a policy to read stories from people who review me, so please review!


**THE JOKER'S SUIT**

**Pandora Skye**

I'll never forget that suit.

The first time I stitched it together, all I could think was that the colours didn't match. But that was what he wanted. The shirts were always cotton, either carrot orange or turquoise in colour, with a silk vest of sewage green or Play-Doh blue. I remember thinking…_colours only a clown would wear_.

But the whole thing was utterly dependent on the crucial element that was always carefully specified in each and every order: A royal purple, tailoured suit made of the finest spun wool and lined in scarlet silk.

The orders were always made over the phone. He never came in to be fitted, not once. All the measurements were carefully reiterated, paid electronically (and rather generously) in advance, snip and cut, just like that. I hadn't the slightest clue what I was doing and for whom I was doing it.

Obliviously, I hand trimmed those odd sized inner pockets and carefully sewed them to the expensive silk lining of the purple coat, barely thinking of just who I was dressing. The strange accessory requests – a matching hat of purple felt, leather gloves, silk polka-dot ties, striped socks always ordered as an odd pair - had made me curious, but by no means suspicious, of what kind of man I was dealing with. I had simply assumed, at the price being paid, little more than an eccentric aristocrat. How terribly wrong I had been.

Month by month, the same suit was returned to me in tatters, often stained with blood and sooty grime. The mysterious client paid a generous fee for my repair jobs, carried out swiftly and without inquiry as to the condition of the suit. Naturally, I complied. At the price he was paying me, why wouldn't I?

But then, one darker than usual night, it was all over the evening news.

The Gotham City Batman in a stunning aerial battle with a clown faced villain, one wearing a very familiar red silk lined, purple suit. A man of the precise measurements I had come to know so well: tall and thin, with broad shoulders and chest, one leg slightly longer than the other. It couldn't be!

The whole country had heard about the Joker murders in Gotham City, and their notorious vigilante crusader, but never had I expected this degree of devastation! As the Gotham police dragged away his harlequin sidekick, I heard her holler in a 1950's New York accent, "he can't take a joke, huh, Mister J?" followed by the raucous of his maniacal laugh as the Batman slammed him against the sidewalk, tearing the turquoise vest in the same place I had only recently repaired it.

Oh lord. I was the one. I was the one who garbed this psychopath in custom, label-less attire. I was the one responsible for his trademark appearance, I had clothed the Clown Prince Of Crime. God help me, I had helped make him an icon. My odd sized pockets housed his knives and hand bombs, my leather gloves concealed the fingerprints on his skillful hands as he wired the explosives that killed hundreds of innocent people, my felt hat hid his eyes in shadow, accentuating that hideous grin. My purple suit clothed a madman hell bent on destruction, made him recognizable and feared by all.

That was then. Things are different now.

You see, the job isn't all that bad, really. Pays well, ridiculously well. In fact, I really only do it now for a past time. And not just for him anymore either, now I dress all of Arkham. The finest and most contrasting fabrics for the suit of Harvey Two-Face, emerald green chiffon and lycra for Poison Ivy, even custom fabrics for the temperature sensitive Victor Fries. Gotham City's most notorious, all dressed in my creations, lining my wallet with the green.

The first time I fired the pistol he gave me, it shot out a sign that read BANG! and impaled the mobster who had come asking questions about him. I saw the guys eyes roll back into his head as little bubbles of cherry coloured blood gurgled out of his mouth. It got easier as it got harder, though the nightmares were relentless. Like the time the Chinese supplier of his silk sold the last of his shipment to someone else. I was instructed, casually, to spray him with an ominous gas and 'skiddly-doo, 'cause this one's to die for!' I only looked back long enough to see the Chinese guy in hysterics while he suffered what looked like one hell of a heart attack. He didn't live long enough for me to find out.

Sure, at first I felt guilty. Even sickened by what I had to do for him. But then, one fine day as he placed his usual order, he said to me, "you know you're lying to yourself when you still whistle while you work, that's when you know you love what you do. I whistle while I work. Do you?" I was silent, shocked. He waited patiently, whistling. I swallowed my pride and gripped the receiver hard. "Yes sir, I do indeed whistle while I work." And I laughed with him, every fibre of my being suddenly exhilarated and alive. "I like you, like you, like you a lot!" he giggled before hanging up on me. I just stood there for a second, a big smile on my face before taking up his whistling tune and a pair of scissors to cut his purple fabric again.

That was the day I sold my soul.

At the end of the day, it's just cash in the pocket and a way to pay the bills. I get the best fashion show in the world, free of charge and with the biggest fireworks imaginable. Don't patronize me with self righteous hypocrisy! How do I sleep at night you ask? The same way the rest of the fashion world does after skinning endangered animals and draping them on anorexic women. With ignorance and plenty of valium.

You see, the Joker's suit is more than just a piece of clothing. It's a madness of its own, one that sucks you in and bleeds you dry. Once he draws your card, calls the number on it and places an order, you're his forever. It's funny, I never realized how much I loved sewage green and Play-Doh blue until him. Even carrot orange has its days. But in the end…

…it's the purple that really kills you.

*** A short story by Pandora Skye, as adapted from the characters of the DC Comics classic, Batman. These characters, with exception to the tailor, are not original and have been borrowed for the purpose of paying tribute to the character of The Joker. Pandora Skye whole heartedly supports all Arkham Asylum inmates in the crusade for the total demise of Batman, even if he is the coolest superhero ever. On that note, never underestimate the power of a well tailoured suit to give you the edge over a business rival. X PS.**


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